


Good Intentions

by Miah_Arthur



Series: Growing Up [1]
Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Internal Monologue, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Road to hell is paved with good intentions--the downfall and death of Simon Crocker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to roseveare11 for being my beta, even though I ramble terribly in correspondence.

 

 

# Good Intentions

 

It's after ten and I haven't sent Duke to bed yet. I need to be able to see him. He's winding down, lying on the rug pushing a toy car back and forth gently. I take another drink of whiskey. Maybe if I drink enough it'll blunt the horror. Hasn't happened yet.

Between one moment and the next Duke has stopped moving the car and his eyes are closed. Still, so still. The sob I've been holding back for hours bursts out, and Duke shifts restlessly. I jam my fist against my mouth to muffle the rest. Thirteen children dead. My choices killed them.

I was so sure of my moral superiority. I was so sure I was right. After Vince ambushed me, turning this power on and practically shoving me toward his Father-in-law in the same instance, I swore never again. I swore I'm not a murderer. I take another drink. Finish the bottle. 

I'm a damn fool. He knew what would happen. He knew. He _knew_ , damn it.

I lurch out of the chair and scoop Duke up. Lay his little head against my shoulder and press my lips to his neck, my nose buried in his hair. He's warm, and breathing, and wraps his arms around my neck. I don't deserve this. I have my baby in my arms while the funeral home is driving to Bangor to pick up tiny coffins.

I lean back, holding Duke tight against my chest. He snuggles into it. Trusts me. I'm his hero. It could have been him in a tiny coffin tonight. If the world had any fairness in it, would I still have my baby after I killed thirteen children through my refusal to act?

I wake up, Duke is still snuggled against me on the chair. My eyes are gritty and burning from crying. A headache is already starting from the whiskey. I tighten my grip on Duke and stagger to my bed with him. With exaggerated carefulness, I lay him on the bed next to the wall. Then I lay down and just watch him breathe. His little face is peaceful, innocent of mischief while he's sleeping, and I smile.

The smile turns to a fight to hold back tears. Somewhere in Haven tonight, thirteen other fathers aren't doing this. Will never do this with those children again. I have to protect my son. I can't let these Troubles kill him. He's all I've really got in this world. My legacy.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will do my duty. I should have done it three days ago. I could have saved the lives of thirteen children and their teacher. Tomorrow with full intent and knowledge of what I'm doing, I'll kill a man. I don't fall asleep until after the first light of dawn is in the sky.

 

* * *

 

It's late. I told Duke I'd be home before his bedtime. Tuck him in. Since school started, it's been much easier. I couldn't stand leaving the boy alone all day, but with school covering most of that time, it's been easier to do what I have to. 

Perkins fought hard, and his Trouble didn't made it easy to get the kill. The fifth of whiskey I drank afterward hasn't made it easy to get home. I look down at my clothes, Perkins' blood has dried on my shoes and my own blood from my busted nose has dried down the front of my shirt. 

The lights are all out when I get home. It's good Duke's already in bed. A six-year-old shouldn't see his old man like this. I stumble through the living room, tripping on Duke's cars. Finally, I make it to the bathroom. Duke hasn't picked his clothes and towel up after his bath. The boy is going to have to step up. He'll understand someday that all this is to save him. We can get through through a couple more years of this, then I'll make it up to him. He'll understand.

"D-dad?"

I groan, but keep my back turned. Duke wasn't supposed to see this. If my " _What_?" comes out a bit gruffer than I meant it to, it's only because I'm worrying. 

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine, Duke. Back to bed. _Now_." I see his reflection cringe, and hear a sniffle. Oh God. I just want to hold him tight and tell him everything will be okay, but I can see in the mirror that my nose is bleeding again, and I still have Troubled blood on my clothes. Even dried, I don't dare risk exposing my baby to that filth.

He hasn't moved. Like he's rooted to the spot, looking at my face in the mirror. " _Duke_. Go to bed. Don't make me tell you a third time."

Three times is a charm for a spanking, and Duke knows it. His eyes widen and then he scuttles off to bed. I hear the bed creak as he climbs in. I can still hear him sniffling.

I pull off my clothes, clean my face up, and take a shower. Then I go to check on Duke. He's pressed into the corner where the bed is against the wall, covers over his head. I can hear him mumbling, "It's okay. Daddy's okay. Don't be scared."

What am I doing? This is all to save my son, but I leave him alone and scared in the dark with only a stupid stuffed bunny for comfort?

"Duke?" My voice is quiet, unsure. 

He jumps, then pokes his head from under the blanket. "I'm sorry! I was going to bed, I promise! Just... Chuck was worried." He holds the ragged bunny up like a shield as he says it.

I sit on the bed and scoot back against the wall, wrap my arm around his small shoulders and pull him in tight. "It'll be okay, son. I'll make sure there's nothing to be scared of."

 

* * *

 

Child support. I've been hit with child support for a eight year old kid I didn't even know I had. Another little Crocker. I smile. Someone for Duke to play with. Wade. The boy's name is Wade. I crumple the letter up and throw it across the room. His mother had waited this long, why couldn't she have waited until this Troubled mess was over and I could take care of Wade properly? 

As soon as Duke gets home from school we'll drive out to meet the boy. The weight that settles into my stomach at the thought of both of my sons in Haven is nearly unbearable. It's been all I can do to keep Duke from associating with that Wuornos kid. Out of the whole school, why would he pick that kid to be friends with? The last thing I need is Duke sharing incriminating details with the Chief's son.

Someday Duke will be able to understand. He'll see how important it has been that he keep our business to ourselves. What about Wade? Sure, he's two years older than Duke, but he'll only be in town for short bursts. Better to not tell him for now. He's older, so maybe after we know each other better, I can trust him with this. 

 

* * *

 

It's easier now. I confessed to Reverend Driscoll. The Reverend says I'm doing God's work. His flock has been helping. It's good to not have to find the targets and corral them alone. I've been making it home before Duke's bedtime more often lately. Even took him and Wade fishing--no smuggling involved. 

I can handle this. 

I can.

The craving niggles at me. I want it. The blood. Somewhere inside me, I can feel the smolder of craving. It's stronger with every kill. Sometimes it almost feels like something alive, crawling under my skin. 

I won't give in, though. I'll be fine. This is nothing I can't control.

 

* * *

 

I'm jittery. Restless. Pacing. It's about time for Duke to be home from school, and I'm acting like a strung-out junkie. It's been too long. Too long... Reverend Driscoll hasn't had a target for me in over two weeks. The blood is calling to me. I've got this under control. I'm not going to kill people that aren't a threat. 

I fling myself into a chair and hold my head with both hands. I'm out of liquor. Drank everything in the house last week. Can't face sober and no blood. It's addictive. The rush. I have to keep my focus. The Reverend says it won't be much more than another year. I can hold this together for Duke and for-- 

The call I got last week still feels like a punch to the gut. Wade isn't coming back. Garland Wuornos's brat saw to that. How the hell had he not seen the blood the whole time he was dragging the damned sled back up the hill? The lawyer babbled on about trauma and my drinking and the _best interest of the child_. I wanted to drag the bastard through the phone and strangle him, but I agreed to keep paying and not bring Wade to Haven anymore. 

I can give him his innocence. I can't give that back to Duke. Wade has a chance. He can grow up, get married, and never know the Crocker duty. Maybe if I can do my duty, Duke will never have to kill, either.

Will it ever be truly over? 

Just one more year of the Troubles. The Reverend says it'll keep getting worse, but it'll end. Dear God let him be right. One more year and I can shake this duty, clean myself up and be the father both of my boys need.

Duke comes pounding up the walk and slams the door open, rattling the windows. I wince and squeeze my aching head a little tighter. 

"Dad! Dad! Look at this!"

He shoves a paper under my nose, much too close for me to actually read it. He's dancing around, excited. All I can think about is how much racket he's making.

"Back off, Duke!"

He shrinks away from me, all the excitement of a moment ago gone. I realize I am standing up, looming over him. He's scared. My son is scared of me. 

I take a step back and look at him. He's still small for his age. The men in my family tend to end up tall, but get their growth late. Makes us tough. His eyes are shiny like he's about to cry. His paper is forgotten on the floor behind him. I sigh and sink back into my chair.

"Just go to your room, Duke. _Stay_ in your room."

He edges away from me, too scared to turn his back. How did I get here? I listen after he edges out of the room. No crying. Part of me is proud. My son is becoming a man. Part of me wishes he were still six years old and I could fix this with a snuggle.

Hours later, when it's well after dark now, and I haven't heard a peep from Duke, I finally pick up his paper and look at it. Field trip. Five dollars and sign the permission slip. I look around at the kitchen that's empty of anything but stale crackers and piles of dirty dishes.

I don't _have_ five dollars. If I did, I wouldn't be thinking about tossing a package of crackers into Duke's room and not looking to see the disappointment on his face. I've got a delivery to make tomorrow afternoon. I'll have the money then. 

I sign the slip and toss it and the crackers into Duke's room. I don't wait. I escape--out of the house into the night. There has to be somewhere that will still take my credit. 

 

* * *

 

What have I done? 

This Trouble wasn't dangerous. 

I can't do this. I can't survive nine more months of this. The blood absorbs, and I feel calm for the first time in weeks. The anger is gone. I can forget that I am a complete failure as a father. 

I wrap the plastic tighter around the body and dump it in the water. The thought first enters my mind that I may not survive this. 

Even if I do, Duke may never forgive me for what I'm becoming. I need to make arrangements--in case. I close my eyes and I don't see the body of the man I just dumped overboard, I see Duke cowering in a corner, arms over his head to ward off...me. 

I'll make it up to him. I'll go home. I'll make it up to him… Just one drink first to cut the edge of the after-blood crash.

 

* * *

 

Why couldn't he just shut up? Was a little quiet too much to ask? My fists clench again. My hands shake even with them clenched. I don't even know where he went when he ran. Can't be too hurt the way he ran out of here. I stalk through the house looking for him. Can't let the kid run loose, telling our business to the wrong people. 

I can't find him. It's too much to hold inside. I can't do this. I don't realize what I've done until I'm blinking my eyes open because the sun is shining into them through a broken blind. I look around. It takes me a minute to realize I'm in my livingroom. The place is trashed. 

I roll over and groan. My head feels like it's going to explode and my hands are swollen and stiff. I must have torn the furniture up with my bare hands--

Oh God.

Duke. 

Where is Duke?

I scan the room, but can't see him from my position on the floor. I drag myself to my feet and scan again. Splinters of furniture are piled, broken glass, papers. How could I do this and not even remember doing it? The house is silent. Completely silent.

I stagger toward the bedrooms, catching myself on the wall and using it to keep myself upright. Cold fear coils in my stomach. The thought of all those tiny coffins that started this nightmare goes through my mind and suddenly I can't breathe. 

I don't want to open his door. I don't want to see my son looking like the living room. I push the door open. The room looks empty and free of damage. I manage to breathe, then, but where is he? I remember being so angry with him.

I check all the hiding places in his room, then my room, and the bathroom. The fear is coiling around my heart now. What if he was in the livingroom when I did...that. Would his blood set off the rush? How had I managed to destroy things so thoroughly? 

My feet feel like they are surrounded by cement as I drag them back up the hall. I check the hall closet. No avoiding now. 

"Duke. Duke!" Maybe he's just scared. He's a smart kid. Maybe he's just found a spot back here that I didn't think about. "Duke, _please_ come out. I'm sorry. I'm not going to hurt you." 

"Like he's going to believe you now." I mutter to myself. If he's smart the kid will hate me the rest of his life. Oh God, please let him be alive. Let him hate me, but let him be alive.

Like an answer to my prayers I hear a small noise from the kitchen. I rush forward. I catch a glimpse of Duke, one eye wide open with terror at my approach, the other swollen shut. He disappears back behind the kitchen island.

 _Stupid. Of course he's scared of you running at him_. I slow down, ease my way into the kitchen. The tornado of damage hasn't touched this area. Like a lee in a storm. I'm not sure where he is exactly, but I sit down, keeping my hands where they can be seen.

"Duke," I say softly. "Duke, come out."

The oven door cracks open. How did the kid even manage to fit in there? What if I managed to trap him in there last night? That was a bad hiding place on so many levels, except I didn't find him. He unfolds his way out, and I notice that he's got one arm held tightly to his chest. His fingers are swollen and the purple bruising runs as far as I can see up his sleeve.

His eyes are downcast, and he's practically shaking. I slowly reach a hand out to him. He hunches protectively around his middle, but doesn't run away. I can't make this right. When I knocked him into the cabinets last month, I convinced him it wouldn't happen again. I was going to make it right. 

I can't make this right.

I slowly work my way over to him. No sudden movements. I need to get a better look at his injuries. "Duke, I'm going to take you to the bathroom, so I can get you cleaned up."

He doesn't make a sound. Hasn't uttered a sound since I woke up. I swing him up into a cradle carry, careful not to jostle his arm. He stiffens, leaning as far away from me as he can. He eyes are squeezed shut. 

_I can't fix this_.

I get him cleaned up. He still hasn't made a sound or looked at me. His arm is definitely broken. I make him take a bath. The bruises on his ribs stand out even more vividly. There is no mistaking what I've done. The boot print is too clear across his ribs and chest. I stomped my baby. From the smell of his clothes, I scared the piss out of him.

This child that I held in my arms at the hospital and swore to protect with my life. I stomped him while he was on the floor defenseless. I have nothing but aspirin that I know someone this small can take. I give him the aspirin, and get him dried off and into clean clothes. He's sniffling now, tears running down his face after I had to move his arm into a shirt. Too cold in this house to be half-naked. It has nothing to do with not looking at my handiwork. Nothing.

I have the medical supplies I need. I swallow hard. I'd made Duke put a cast on my hand and wrist when I broke it doing my duty a few months ago. He knows how this works. 

"I'm sorry, son, but I have to see how bad this is." I run my fingers over the bones in his arm. I can feel the give, but it's lined up good. I get the arm in the cast and wrap his ribs. He's gotten thin, lately. I carry him to bed and tuck him in. Find that bunny that he hasn't held in over a year, but won't throw out, and hand it to him. He snatches it and hugs it to his chest.

"I'm going to go get food, Duke. I'll be back. Sleep. Rest. I'll be back."

 

* * *

 

My credit is shot all over town. I can't even get a good drink. I… I killed two women in my last port of call. Cried over their bodies for the rest of the night. They weren't cursed. 

I'm not going to survive this.

If I creep in the house late enough and quiet enough, Duke might not hear me coming. I can watch him sleep. His arm is still skinny from being in the cast. I got a letter from the school about him tormenting that Wuornos kid. I can't get within five feet of him when he's awake. 

That old bunny--worn completely through to the stuffing in places--is on the floor. I hug it tight and let the tears fall. How did I get here? 

How did I get here?

I remember watching him sleep the night I learned the consequences of failing to do my duty. Before I killed a second time. I was going to protect him. Save him. Make Haven safe, so no one else lost their baby. I deserve this. I killed those kids. It's only right that I lose my son, too. 

Suddenly small arms are around my neck. It startles me, and I freeze. How? How could Duke still have it in him to give me comfort? I pull him into my lap and rock him. I know he's too big for it, but I may never be thinking this clearly again. 

"You be a better man than I was, Duke. You promise me that you'll come back to Haven. Promise me, Duke. Twenty-five years from now, you come back, and you be a better man than I have been."

"Twenty-five…?"

"Look at me, Duke. Look at me. Promise. Promise and never forget. Twenty-five years and you come back. You stay. You be a better man. Promise. Promise!"

"I promise. I promise. Twenty-five years. When I turn thirty-three, I'll come back and see you."

I pull him tight and tears roll down my face into his hair. Haven will be saved. Duke can still forgive me. He's stronger than I ever was. He can survive our family curse.

"Where am I going, dad?"

I laugh in a sob. "You're a Crocker. You're going to get the urge to wander. You're going to want to live life. Just don't forget your promise. You _have_ to come back. You have to do what I can't."

"You'll still be here then, won't you, dad? You're not leaving?"

"I don't want to, Duke. I don't want to. I love you. I've always loved you. I will always love you, son. Just remember your promise."

 

* * *

 

James Cogan was found dead this morning. I didn't kill him, but I sure as hell wish I had. The Guard is watching me. They know. I haven't had blood for too long. My hands shake. It's an ache I feel in my bones, a fire eating me from the inside. Duke opens the door carefully. The way the boy cringes around the house is getting more annoying than his noise ever was. How is he going to ever carry on the Crocker duty if he's scared of his shadow? 

It takes two tries for me to get the bottle on the table. Duke's looking at me with that big-eyed look that I can't stand. "Get over here, _boy_."

He trembles and takes a step back. He's eight. No way for a boy that old to be acting. I lurch to my feet. That boy needs to learn a lesson. Before I've taken two steps he's back out the door. By the time I make it to the door, he's disappeared into the dark.

 

* * *

 

The water is cold. I shiver and my teeth chatter.

It was the blood. I was distracted by the blood and didn't see them hiding on my boat. 

I was a good man. All I wanted was to love my son, and not leave him an orphan. 

_I haven't been his father since those kids died._

It doesn't even hurt. How can it not hurt? If only it worked with my own blood. I'd die happy. 

A pole pushes against my chest. She shot me, and now she wants to keep me from drowning? 

I've been dead for years, this is just the world catching up. 

_Take care of my son._

I think Garland understands. 

My teeth aren't chattering anymore. 

I...

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A note about my headcanon. Basically my theory regarding Nathan and Garland Wuornos results in Nathan already being known as Garland's son during the Troubles. (I have a fully explained version of this theory, but I am not inflicting that on the notes, as I get very long-winded). Also that by the time Simon begins killing the Troubled, Duke's mother was not in the picture. Exactly why, I don't have a particular theory about, just that she was not there. I have a rough timeline that goes with this fic. Canon is so vague and downright contradictory, but I have thought about it and done my best to stay canon-compliant with the timeline that is represented in this fic.


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